PS 635 
.Z9 C48 
Copy 1 



This Book Must Be Returned to the Manager. 



BLUE AND GREY. 



fv Drama of the leueUion. 



IX FIVE ACTS AND FIVE TABLEAUX. 



Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1873, by E.CHURCHILL and 
J. G. GOULD, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 



LA W R E N G E : 

Printed at the Office of the Daily Eagle, No. 307 Essex Street. 
18 73. 



This Book Must Be Returned to the Manager. 



BLUE AND GREY, 



•7 

/ 



§, $}ratwa at Vtit §t*Mtt*». 



IN FIVE ACTS AND FIVE TABLEAUX. 



v>; 



S 



< v.... «■ 



' 



Entered according to Act of Congress in the yearl873, by E. CHURCHILL and 
J. G. GOULD, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 



For Terms and Particulars apply to E. CHURCHILL, P. 0. Box 67, 
Lawrence, Mass. 




LA WHENCE : 

Printed at the Office of the Daily Eagle, No. 307 Essex Street. 

1873. 



GIST OF CHARACTERS, 



>5**c 



CHARLES RA YMOND. 
MR. RA TMOND. 
JOT HAM HOPKINS. 
MIKE CASEY. 
UNCLE NED. 
PRIVATE JONES. 

THOMPSON. 
FRANK WILSON. 
GEORGE EVANS. 
RANDOLPH PEYTON, A Virginian. 
GENERAL HILL, (Reb). 
SERG'T McGAW, 

EDITH RAYMOND, Adopted daughter of Mr. R. 
MRS. RAYMOND. 
SILENCE SHORT, Jotham's gal. 
Union and Rebel Officers and Soldiers. Guards, 
Sentinels, &c, &c. 



COSTUMES, - - - MODERN. 



Time of Eepbesbntation — Two Houes and a half. 



TMP92-008831 



BLUE AND GREY. 



ACT I. 



Scene I. — Parlor in Mr. Raymond's house. Mr. and Mrs. 

R. sitting at table l. c. Mr. Raymond reading. Mrs. 

Raymond sewing. Peyton and Edith playing chess at 

table r. h. 
Mr. Raymond. Mother, there is no doubt that these papers 
are determined to bring about a war between the North and 
the South. 

Mrs. R. The papers, husband? 

Mr. R. Yes, I repeat it, the papers ; what earthly cause is 
there for internecine warfare between us and our brethren at 
the South? Why, Mrs. R, why should we imbrue our hands 
in our brothers' blood ? Why should we interfere — and that 
reminds me of what the Judge said. 

Peyton. {Aside.) Yes; the Judge knows. 

Mrs. R. But, husband, do you not think there must soon 
be a crisis ; that the institution of slavery — 

Mr. R. There, there, mother; the old story — slavery, 
slavery. Now, Mrs. Raymond, this is my idea, and— ahem ! 
it is the Judge's, — we have lived in peace for upwards of 
eighty years, despite of slavery, which, mark me, I admit to 
be a fearful sin, but why can we not shut our eyes to this 
one sin, and still live in peace? Now, madam, I await a 
reply. 



6 BLUE AND GEET. ACT I. 

Mrs. B. Well, husband, you know I don't understand 

politics, but I do hope this trouble may be settled without 

war. I must attend to present affairs, however, and see how 

dinner is progressing. {Exit l. 

[Mr. B. resumes Ms reading. ] 

Peyton. In this game, position is everything ; that once 
secure, success, as in the game of love, depends mainly upon 
bold and decisive action, 

Edith. Yet, unless we are ever on the alert, through lack of 
prudence, the game is oft-times lost — good players are always 
cautious. 

Peyton. And being too cautious, lose the game, permitting 
a more daring rival to bear away the prize. 

Edith. But, in our game, there is no prize at stake. 

Peyton. Then let there be one. 

Edith. What shall it be? 

Peyton. [Taking her hand.] This. 

Edith. [Confused.'] That would be but a poor prize when 
won — without the heart. 

Peyton. Then stake that, too. 

Edith. [ Who has been studying the board, moves.] Check- 
mate ! You have lost the game while disputing about the 
stake. 

Peyton. Yes, Miss Eaymond, I have indeed, lost the game 
— [Aside] of chess but not of love. 

Edith. [Laughingly.] How fortunate that you did not lose 
your heart. 

Peyton. Ah! I have already lost that; a certain little 
thief— 

Edith. Thief ? You should have legal advice, Mr. Peyton. 

Peyton. There is but one remedy, albeit, that is a legal 
one, to-wit: Marriage, 

Edith. What a fearful alternative. 

Peyton. I do not so regard it, nor dread it in the least, 
nay, I even hope I may soon have occasion to accept this 
"fearful alternative." But as the day is so fine, shall we not 
walk in the grounds ? 



Scene I.] blue and grey. 7 

Edith. Willingly; I will get my hat and shawl. 

[Exit r. 

Peyton. [Aside.] I am rushing to my fate; for good or ill 
the next half hour must decide it. [Crosses l. 

Mr. P. What is your opinion, Mr. Peyton ? 

Peyton. [Starting.'] Of what, sir? 

Mr. P. What, sir, is your opinion of the present political 
situation ? 

Peyton. My dear sir, you know I never take the slightest 
interest in politics. 

Mr. P. But, my young friend, this is a time when every 
one should take an interest in the affairs of the nation ; when 
men of peace and conservative principles should strive to 
counteract the influence of sectional prejudices, and avert 
that most terrible of calamities — a civil war. Now, I do not 
believe there will be any war. 

Peyton. [Nervously. ] I hope not, sir. 

Mr. P. Should there be war, my sympathies and my ut- 
most means will be given for the maintenance of the Union. 

Peyton. Oh, yes, undoubtedly. 

Mr. P. And you, Mr. Peyton ? 

Peyton. Sir, I am — [Aside] Confound him. [Enter 
Edith r. ] Just in time. My dear sir, we are going to walk in 
the grounds ; will you postpone this conversation until my 
return ? 

Mr. P. Oh, certainly, certainly. 

[They go out, r. Enter Charles, l.., ivith papers.] 

Mr. P. Well, my boy, have you brought the papers; — 
what news do they contain ? 

Chas. Bad news, father, very bad. 

Mr. P. Why, you don't think still— 

Chas. There will be war? Most assuredly I do, and if 
hostilities do not commence within a week I shall be most 
agreeably disappointed. 

Mr. R. [Testily.] Nonsense, nonsense, nonsense, 

[Exit l. 

Chas. My father will have a rude awakening from his 



8 BLUE AND GREY. [ACT I. 

dream of peace, but when the storm does break, he will ever 
be found loyal to those great principles upon which our 
Union is founded. 

[Enter Mrs. Raymond, c. d. d. ] 

Mrs. B. Oh, Charles ! Edith and Mr. Peyton are walking 
together in the garden, and his manner seems almost that of 
an accepted suitor. 

Chas. Well, that shows Randolph to be a young man of 
exceedingly good taste, for the day is remarkably line and 
Edith is a very lovely girl ; I am sure you cannot blame him. 

Mrs. R. But, Charles, I really think he means to propose. 

Chas. I am quite sure he does, for he intimated as much 
to me this morning. 

Mrs. R. Oh, Charles, I am very, very sorry, for you know 
how earnestly I desire to see you and Edith united. 

Chas. I know, mother, but that can never be ; Edith is my 
sister in all save birth, and as a sister I shall ever love and 
cherish her. But do not let it annoy you. Randolph is a 
true-hearted, noble fellow, and will make Edith an excellent 
husband. 

Mrs. R. I hope so, Charles, I hope so ; yet I hesitate to 
trust her happiness to his keeping. [Exit l. 

Chas. Mother has taken a strange dislike to Randolph, but 
I am convinced that it is without cause. I think I will go 
into the grounds and smoke. The lovers need not be dis- 
turbed, for I will give them timely warning of my approach. 

[Exit k. 



Scene II. — Oar den or grounds adjoining Mr. Raymond's 
house. 

Enter Peyton and Edith, l. 
Edith. What a glorious day ! — the air is as mild and warm 
as summer. * 

Peyton. Tis like a Spring day in my glorious Southern 
home. Oh, Miss Edith, how I love the land of my birth — 
dear old Virginia. 



Scene II. J blue and grey. 9 

Edith. It is very natural to revere the place of one's birth. 
— The love of home and country is the noblest and most 
sacred of all loves, and should ever be cultivated aud encour- 
aged. 

Peyton. Is love, then, a voluntary passion, which we may 
prune and train at will, as the simple, passive flower ? 

Edith. [Confused.] I — hardly — know — I am — not well 
qualified to judge, for I cannot speak from experience. 

Peyton. Oh, let me be your tutor, then. [Taking her 
hand.] Dear Edith, if hearts can be taught to love, let me 
teach yours during my short stay here. I have learned to 
love you with all the warm, generous impulse of my fiery 
Southern nature. Tell me, may I hope to win your heart — 
the most precious boon that man can ask or woman give ? 

Edith. This — is — so sudden, so strange; I dare not trust 
myself to speak; oh, give me time to think. 

Peyton. Do not keep me long in suspense, — give me one 
word, — bid me but hope, and I will be your slave. 

Edith. [Shuddering aside.] Slave! Oh, heavens! that 
fatal word. Why does it ever haunt me ? 

Peyton. Why this hesitation? Tell me, have I been de- 
ceived ? Tell me, even if you hate me, — I can bear that better 
than this suspense. 

Edith. No, no; it is not that, — but I must be alone— I 
must search my heart to its utmost depths before I can 
answer you. [Going. He attempts to follow her.] Nay 
do not follow; I must be alone. [Aside.] May the spirit of 
my dear mother watch over and guide me aright. [Exit r. 

Peyton. This is very strange; lam almost sure she loves 
me — yet I would give half my fortune to know it, to hear the 
sweet assurance from her own lips. [Charles heard off, l.] 
Ah, there is Charley coming this way. He must not suspect 
me, [Lights cigar. ] 

[Enter Charles, l.] 

Chas. Ah, Randolph, you here, and alone, too ? Why, 
where is Edith ? 



10 BLUE AND GKEY. ACT I. ] 

Peyton. [Unconcerned.] Oh, the air growing chilly, she 
went into the house a moment before you came ; I remained 
to finish my cigar. 

Chas. If you will allow me I will join you. [Lights 
cigar j Now let's talk over old times. 

Peyton. That is not always a pleasant theme, Charley. 
You know there are passages in every life-book which can 
only awaken unpleasant memories ; so we seldom refer to 
them. 

Chas. You have often promised to tell me something of 
your past life. I see you are in the mood, so please proceed. 

Peyton. My story is not one which will interest you great- 
ly. My father was killed in a duel when I was but a year 
old. From that time until I was fifteen years of age, my 
my mother's life was one struggle with poverty and care, 
then, broken in spirit and worn with sorrow and toil, she 
died, leaving me to the guardianship of her brother, who, 
though bitterly opposed to her union with my father, has 
been to me the kindest and most indulgent of friends. Hav- 
ing no children of his own, he has made me his heir, and I 
now know no want which wealth can supply. 

Chas. Thank you, for your confidence. And now, my boy, 
there is but one thing wanting to complete your happiness : 
— You must find some true-hearted northern girl to introduce 
as Mrs. Peyton, in your lovely southern home. 

Peyton. Well — yes — I have thought of that, and may, per- 
haps, succeed in such an endeavor, ere long. 

Chas. I have no doubt of it, and, judging from appear- 
ances, the time is not very far distant ; eh, old fellow ? 

Jotham. [Outside, l.J All right, Aunt Euth; T guess I can 
find him. 

Peyton. Ah ; whom have we here ? 

Chas. That is my cousin Jotham— a regular genius. He 
seems, to a stranger, rather uncultivated, but he is a good 
fellow, and — to use an expression of his own — has a ' ' heart 
as big as an ox." 



Scene II.] blue and grey. 11 

[Enter Jotham, n.] 
Jotham. Hullo, Charley ! how air ye ? Til be darned if I 
ain't glad to see ye. [Shaking hands vigorously.] How air 
ye, any way. [Seeing Peyton.] Say, Charley; who is that 
tarnai, stuck-up-looking chap ? I'll be darned if he ain't 
stiffer'n inarin's puddin'-stick or dad's hoe-handle. 

Chas. He is a very dear friend of mine, from Virginia ; I 
will introduce you. [Introduction.] 

[Jotham offers his hand ; Peyto7i bows very stiffly without 
taking it. ] 
Joth. How d'ye do, sir ! Hope yer well. Nice weather, 
ain't it? What's the news? I hear you're from the South- 
'ard ; what's the prospect for the crop o' green stuff down 
your way, this Spring? 

Peyton. If I may be allowed to judge, I venture to say that 
the "crop of green stuff" promises quite as well in this 
region. 

Joth. Jerusalem ! You don't say so ! You know how His 
yourself. 

Peyton. [ Turning from him angrily. ] Pshaw ! 
Chas. [To Peyton.] Do not be angry with him, he means 
no harm. Well, Jotham, how are all my old friends in your 
place ? How is Frank Wilson, and how is Silence ? and, I 
say, Jotham, does she still look with loving eyes upon your 
manly form? 

Joth. You git out ! She don't do nothin' else, tell your 
folks, — but, speakin' serious and to the pint, ain't she a 
tarnai cute little critter ? Why, Charley, I swow, when I 
look at her it makes my heart go flip-er-ty-flop, bum-er-ty- 
bump — just like an old-fashioned churn-dasher. 

Chas. Yes, she is a very fine girl, and will make you a 
good wife. But let us go into the house ; father will want to 
hear the news. Come, Randolph. [Chas. and Peyton go 
out, L. 

Joth. [ Watching them out] Southerner, hey ? and a pesky, 
pisen skunk, too, or else I ain't no judge o' cats,— and it's 
my opinion that uncle's folks will find it out afore long, and 



12 BLUE AND GREY. ACT I. ] 

that he'll have to pick up his week's washin' and make tracks 
for the sacred sile of Virginny ; 'Cause why ? Skunks ain't 
good property to have round a hen-roost, — I know how that 
is myself. Ezit, l. 



Scene TIL — Parlor. Mr. Raymond discovered. 

Mr. R. Well, well ; I wish Charles would come with the 
morning papers; I have read these through and through. 
[Throws paper on table.] Nothing but the cant of the day 
— war, war, war at any rate. The whole country is crazy ; 
even that rusty nephew of mine, Jotham, fancies that he 
knows more of national affairs than myself, and presumes, in 
spite of my arguments, to tell me there "will be a fight," as 
he terms it. Here he comes now. [Enter Jotham, l.] Well 
nephew, I hope you have thought these matters over and 
arrived at a sensible conclusion — my conclusion. 

Joth. I tell you what 'tis, uncle Josh, I have thought these 
matters over for a considerable of a spell, and I've made up 
my mind that there's going to be a fight. You see them 
darned lazy critters down South have got their backs up be. 
cause we've 'lected Abe Linkin — the honestest man that ever 
split a rail. Now they think that one o' them can lick five or 
six of us Yankees any mornin', just to give him an appetite 
for his breakfast, but I know, and you ought to know that 
they can't do it. Don't you see now, that thinkin' and feelin' 
as they do, they'll go right into this thing blind, and afore 
they half git the dirt out o' their eyes they'll git too tarnal 
fur in to back out, so they'll have to fight to git out at all ? 

Mr. R. Jotham, you take an imperfect and partisan view 
of the subject — an imperfect and partisan view. Just look at 
the matter in my light. 

Joth. Uncle Josh, your light must be a taller candle, but 
mine ain't, by no manner of means, and, 'cordin' to my light, 
there's going to be a fight. Tell ye what 'tis, we read the 
newspapers up our way. 



Scene Til ] blue and grey. 13 

Mr. R. But, my dear boy, the papers have been the cause 
of more than one-half the trouble thus far. [Emphatically. ] 
Jotham Hopkins, mark my words, there will be no war. The 
good sense and patriotism of the true men of both sections 
will avert such a calamity. 1' repeat it without the fear of 
contradiction ; there will be no war ! 

[Enter Charles, l., hurriedly with papers.] 

Chas. Great news ! Fearful news ! The blow has fallen ! 

Mr. R. [ Very much astonished.] Wh-wh, — what ! ! 

Chas. [Reads.] " The rebel forts and batteries have opened 
a heavy and sustained fire upon Fort Sumter. Already a 
large number of her guns are dismounted. Relief is impos- 
sible. Surrender is certain. Later : — The fort is in flames 
and her guns are silenced. " 

[Edith and Peyton enter during the reading. ] 

Joth. There, uncle Josh, how high up is that for a guess? 
What do you think about my light now ? 

Mr. R. I — I — can't speak. What will the Judge say ? 

Peyton. [Aside.] Has it then come so soon? I had hoped 
to win Edith ere the blow fell. 

Chas. There is but one course now for him who loves his 
country — to fly to arms in her defence, nor let the sword be 
sheathed till rebel traitors learn the cost of treason. 

Joth. That's the talk, Charley ; that's the kind '11 fetch 
'em. I'm with ye, old fellow. You and me'll go out there 
and lick the whole pisen lot on 'em, from Virginny to Texas. 

Peyton. [Turning fiercely.] Sir: I am a Virginian, and will 
not hear my native State abused by a low-born northern 
mud- sill. 

Chas. What is this, Peyton? Such language from you, 
my cherished friend, whom I had esteemed an honest man 
and a patriot ? 

Peyton. Charles Raymond, Virginia is my home — from my 
earliest years I have been taught to revere her institutions, 
and now, that they are imperilled, I am ready to lay down 
my life in her defense. 



14 BLUE AND GBET. [ACT I. 

Chas. Such language is treason, and you who utter it a 
traitor. You have been my friend, now you are my country's 
foe and mine. The same roof can no longer shelter us both, 
and that roof a loyal man's. Should we ever meet again, let 
it be as foes^-not friends. 

Peyton. As you will, sir,— your sentiments are mine. I 
trust we may meet again. 

Edith. [Crossing to Peyton.] Mr. Peyton, yesterday you 
sought my hand in marriage ; I asked for time to consider, 
and 'twas well I did so. Now hear my answer : No traitor 
tan ever win the hand of Edith Raymond. Though I loved 
you dearer than my life, I would spurn you from me, even 
should the shock of separation rend my heart in twain. 

Peyton. Edith, must we part thus ? 

Joth. [ Who has been an impatient listener.'] See here, my 
festive southern cuss, I don't believe that gal cares a second- 
hand cud of spruce gum for you. Now I calkilato that 
you've aired your sesesh gabble round these diggins about 
long enough, and if you don't shet up your yap, I'll make 
ye think a mule kicked ye with all four shoes on one huff. 

Mr. B. Restrain yourself, Jotham, leave this to me. Mr. 
Peyton, I have been blind, I have not seen aright the dangers 
which beset my country, but I shall, I trust, be willing to 
sacrifice much now that war has burst upon us, You are my 
guest, yet you see, sir, that even courtesy and hospitality 
would not invite your longer presence in my house. You 
will therefore, oblige us all by leaving it as soon as possible. 

Peyton. Rest assured, Mr. Raymond, I shall not long re- 
main an intruder in your hospitable mansion. [To Edith.] 
Adieu, Miss Raymond, think kindly sometimes of the "trai- 
tor." [Crosses to Charles.] Charles Raymond, our strife has 
but begun, when next we meet 'twill be in mortal combat. 

[Exit, r. 

Chas. We are well rid of a traitor. Would that our coun- 
try were as well rid of the race. Our duty is plain,— all who 
can must assist in crushing a rebellion which threatens the 



Scene III. J blue and grey. 15 

very existence of the nation. I shall at once apply for the 
necessary authority to recruit a company, and offer my ser- 
vices to the government. 

Joth. Hooray for my cousin ! Charley, you jest count me 
in on that every time. 

Mr. E. My dear boy, I can do no less than bid you God- 
speed. Go, my son, and let us look to Him who bringeth 
light out of darkness, in this, our darkest hour. 

Jothah, Edith, Mr. E., Charles. 

Slow Drop,— Band playing «' America.." 

Tableau — "To Arms." An Allegory, representing time of 
Peace, changing to a representation of the Fall of 

Sumter. 

End of Act I. 



ACT II. 

Scene I. — A recruiting office. Charles at table with clerk. 
Man signing roll. Groups of men standing about. 

Chas. Forty-four names on the roll, — that is encouraging ; 
only twenty more and the company is full. 

Joth. D'ye hear that, boys ? Almost your last chance— got 
to hurry up if you're goin'. 

Thompson. Jones, I'll go if you will ; what do you say ? 

Jones. Well, I don't know — 

Joth. Don't know? Who in thunderation does know, if 
you don't ? Come now, that air gal that I see you buzzin' 
down by the post-office last night '11 think a darned sight 
more of ye if ye go with us and help lick the blasted rebs. 
{Jones hangs back.~\ See here, old feller, if ye don't come 
up and sign, I'll cut ye out with the gal— I will, by mighty. 
I can do it, for there ain't nothin' like a blue uniform with a 
good many brass buttons on it, to make the gals run arter 
ye, — / know how 'tis myself. [Jones signs.] That's the 



16 BLTJE AND GREY. [ACT II. 

talk. Now, boys, the rest of ye walk up and immortalize 
yerselves. 

[Nearly all the men sign the roll. Mike heard sing- 
ing, off, R.] 

Joth. Hallo ! here's a Frineh gintleman dyin' to cover 
hisself with glory. 

[Miter Mtke, r.] 

Mike. Glory, is it ? Faith, ye're right; meself is the boy 
is biliug over wid glory. Where is the boss, till I pat me 
name down ? 

Chas. This way, my man. 

Mike. [Takes pen and tries to write ] Oh, bad luck to the 
pen,— write it yerself, sir, av ye plaze, sure I cud niver write 
wid a pen, [ Aside] nor anythin' else. 

Chas. What is your name ? 

Mike. Me name, is it? I thought ye knew it — everyone 
knows it at home. Mike Casey, sir, as good a name as iver 
crossed the salt say. Whisper. I suppose we'll get plenty 
to ate. 

Chas. Oh, yes ; Uncle Sam is very liberal in the matter of 
rations. 

Mike. Bekase, sir, bein' a fine growin' boy I have a divil 
of an appetite, — and, sir, I wouldn't like to go hungry. It 
might shtop me growth, ye know. 

Chas. We are expecting orders to march very soon ; you 
will therefore be ready to go at an hour's notice. 

Mike. Small harm, sir; sure I have no one to lave behind 
me, — they're all under the sod of ould Ireland, — so I'll not be 
long away, sir. [As Mike goes out, r., Ned runs against 
him.'] 

Mike, (ret out, ye dirty, black nagur! For what razon do 
yez run agin a dacent Irishman and a sojer in the Amerikin 
army? Be me soul, only for blacking me fingers, I'd make 
ye think all the stars in the sky was dancing jigs on yer wool" 
ly head. Get out wid ye. [Gives Ned a kick and a push.'] 

[Exit, r. 



Scene I. blue and grey. 17 

Ned. [Nigger business.] Golly! Reckon de war's done 
gone begun — firm' commence in de rear. 

Joth. Well, old snowball, if you've got yerself put together 
p'raps you'll tell us what you're here for. 

Ned. Who lib h 1 yar ? 

Chas. This is a recruiting office, where men are enrolled 
for the army. 

Ned. Army ! I golly, dats' jes' what I done come down 
h'yar for, but dat paddy-man shake me up so d at I done for 
got all about it. Will you take dis chile, massa 2 

Chas. We are not allowed to enlist men of your color, but 
you can go as my servant, if you wish. 

Ned. What I hab to do, massa ? 

Chas. Black boots, cook, wash, do anything I may have 
for you to do, and you will receive plenty to eat, and ten dol- 
lars a month besides, 

Ned. [Astonished.] Ten dollars a munf ? Where dey get 
so much money ? My good golly, I didn't know there was so 
much iu de whole world. [Dances about stage much 
pleased.] 

Chas. What do you say — will you go ? 

Ned. Go ? I golly, I reckon I go for dat ten dollars. 
[Business.] When I go, massa ? 

Chas. You had better enter upon your duties at once. 
You may sweep out the office. What is your name ? 

Ned. Uncle Ned, massa. 

Chas. Well, Uncle Ned, T am going to dinner now. If 
anyone enquires for me during my absence, say I shall be 
back at two o'clock. [Exit, l. 

Ned. Yes, massa. Sweep out de office, yes, sah. [Sweeps 
tabte, chairs, men and all before him. ] Dar, I reckon dat 
office done sweep pretty clean. [Introduces some negro act] 
I most forgot what massa tole me to say if anybody come. 
If — anybody come — 'quirin' for ye abscess, — broke him back 
wid two clocks, dat's it. [Exit, sweeping. 



18 BLUB AND GREY. [ACT II. 

Scene II.— Street. Music, "Abraham's Daughter." 
{Enter Jotham, l.] 

Joth. Well, I'll be darned if I ain't just as chuck full o' 
milingtary as an egg is full o' meat. Our company is full, 
too, and ready to go, and darned if the boys ain't just as full 
o' the matter as they can hold and not bust. And I'm Corp'- 
ral Hopkins. By gosh, ain't that jest red-hot ? Won't I 
sling on the martial bearin' when I see Silence Short ? I 
should full as lief not see her jest now, but I writ to her yes- 
terday and I shouldn't wonder if her heavenly form should 
bust upon my astonished vision sometime to day. Oh, bees- 
wax ! there she is now, putterin' along in the middle o' the 
road — mud up to her ankles — and buzzin' every male critter 
she meets as to the whereabouts of Jotham. Darn my pic- 
tur, I don't feel no more like a soldier now than our old 
brindle cow. 

[Enter Silence, r. They shake hands, &c] 

Silence. Oh, Jotham, Jotham, Jotham, — what have you 
done, what have you done ? 

Joth. Oh, Silence, Silence, Silence, — why air you here, 
why air you here ? I wish my rushin' to arms might be lim- 
ited to this branch o' the sarvice. 

Silence. Oh, now, Jotham, how could you enlist and leave 
me to die all alone ? 

Joth. [Putting his arm around her. ] Yes, you do seem to 
be ivaist-m'' away, that's a fact. 

Silence You great ugly critter to make fun o' me when I 
feel so bad. [Crying.'] I believe to gracious you'd make fun 
if you was to see me drop right down dead, and I don't know 
but I shall sometime or nuther. I tell you I feel awfully, 
sometimes. 

Joth. Now, Silence, don't talk so. 'Taint always the roos- 
ter that cackles the most, that lays the most eggs, you know 
— and I reckon I feel pooty well wobble-cropped myself. 

Silence. I s'pose you thought 'twas awful cunnin' to go 



Scene II.] blue and grey. 19 

and enlist afore you told me any thing about it, but 'twan't, 
'twas jest as mean as dirt, so there, Jotham Hopkins. 

Joth. Silence Short, you ain't patriotic worth a cent. By 
mighty, you ought to hear my cousin Edith talk once, 

/Silence. What do I care about your cousin Edith ! What's 
she know about war ? She ain't got no feller to be cut off in 
the bloom of youth, like me. O, Jotham, I can't let ye go. 

Joth. Silence, I tell ye 'taint half so bad as it might be, — 
s'posin' we were married, and had a crop o' little Hopkinses — 

Silence. Jotham Hopkins, you shet up ! 

Joth. That's the talk, spunk up, — you'll feel a darned sight 
better for it, — but say, come up to the house. Uncle '11 make 
ye a speech, and Charley and Edith '11 talk war and Union, 
(that's what you and me believe in, you know,) and in less 
than half an hour you'll wish you had nineteen or twenty 
more fellers to help lick the darned sesesh. 

Silence. {Cheering up.] Oh, Jotham, I'm a good mind to 
go with you. 

Joth. Ha ! ha ! ha ! yes, I would go, and be a child o' the 
regiment. Healthy old child you'd make, wouldn't ye ? 

Silence. You stop your noise ; makin' fun o' me agin and 
my heart jest ready to bust, all for you, you great ugly thing. 

Joth. Oh, well, don't be in sech a pucker — the war'll be 
all over sometime, and then there's goin' to be a change in 
one of our names, for if I ain't shot, you'll be a Hopkins. 
[Bugle call for drill, off l. ] By mighty, I didn't know 'twas 
so late. That's the drill-call, and I must go and help 'em, 
'cause, ye see, I've been 'pinted corp'ral. Think o' that, Si- 
lence, and don't cry no more. See what a chance I stand to 
be a gin'ral; see what a chance you stand to be a Mrs. 
Gin'ral. Jest run up to the house, and I'll be up pooty 
soon. [JStxi, Ij. 

Silence. Oh, Jemimy ! I don't know whether to be mad or 
cry. There was Jotham and me goin' to be jined jest as soon 
as ever it came Fall, and now this pesky, tarnal war has upset 
our dough-dish and spiled the whole bakin'. This war's 
goin' to be awful for the women-folks, and I'm one of the 



20 BLUE AND GBEY. [ACT II. 

fust sufferers. I wish to gracious I was a man. I'd go down 
south and I'd comb Jeff. Davis 1 hair with a three-legged 
stool, I'd larn them pesky secessioners to kick up sech a 
rumpus. I'd fix 'em. [Exit, b. 

Scene III. — Landscape or street. Troops and villagers 
discovered. Mr. Raymond steps forward. 

Mr. R. Captain Raymond : In behalf of the citizens of this 
town, I have been selected to speak a few words of parting to 
you and to your command. One short year ago how strange, 
how impossible, would have seemed this scene, and now, 
how stern the reality as we look our last on you, ere you go 
forth in defence of our common country. The heart of every 
loyal man and woman goes with you to-day — one prayer 
arises from every soul — for in you and your comrades in the 
field our hopes are centered. "We lift onr hearts to God, 
praying that He may protect and bless you, crown you with 
victory's laurels, and when you rest, our nation's foemen 
vanquished, bring you safe home again — the honored heroes 
of a grateful land. 

Chas. Mr. Raymond and friends : We thank you for these 
words so full of patriotic devotion, breathing, as they do, the 
spirit now animating every loyal soul in this, our country's 
hour of peril. We well know that the heart of each true son 
and daughter of Columbia is with us in this trying moment, 
praying that success may attend us and peace be the reward 
of our privations and sacrifices. We shall depart from you 
sustained and strengthened, knowing we are to battle in the 
cause of Freedom, Union, Peace. And, though the south- 
ern soil may rest on many a one of us, may our epitaph be 
written in these simple, but oh, how glorious, words : "They 
died that the Nation might live." Once more we thank you, 
and with stout hearts and firm resolves, bid you farewell. 

Tboops Mabch off. Vlllagees Following. 

Tableau. — " Soldieb's Farewell." 

Music. — " When this cruel war is over." 

End of Act II. 



Scene I.J blue and grey. 21 

ACT III. 

Scene I. — Union camp. Soldiers at breakfast Camp fire 
c. Mike cooking, &c, &c. I our men playing euchre, l . 

Jones. I'm jest sick of this thing, I am. Here we have to 
march forty miles a day with a darned wagon- load on our 
backs, then down in the mud at night, and up agin afore light 
in the mornin' to make a breakfast of sech stuff as that. 
[Holding up piece of pork. ] 

Joth. I hate this consarned, eternal grumblin'. Why not 
take things as they come ? We must expect some pooty hard 
knocks and darned poor fodder sometimes. I tell ye, we're 
goin' to stamp out these cussed rebs, and I'm the critter that's 
goin' to help do it, if it takes a leg. 

Jones. It may * l take a leg" for you yet, old boy. 

Joth. Well, then the leg that's left '11 have to order it up 
and go it alone, that's all. 

Jones. All this talk don't make our grub any better. How 
I wish I could get hold of a good fat chicken once more. 

Joth. Chicken ! You talk about chicken ! Why, where 
you was brought up, the sile was too darned mean to raise 
corn enough to keep a chicken alive, and there wa'n't grass 
enough to shelter the grasshoppers, and the poor critters 
used to set on the rocks, with tears in their eyes, cryin' 
" Lord, help us." 

Jones. Oh, you let up on your talk. 
[Noise off, r.] 

Joth. Hullo, here comes the nigger with a load o' plunder, 
and I'll bet my day's rations that he wouldn't give one of us 
a mouthful to save our gizzards. 

Mike. Bedad, it's right ye are, the black thief is as stingy 
as a miser, but let ye tip him the blarney for a bit, and look 
at me come the paddy over him. 

Enter Ned, r, with two hams tied together and slung over 
his shoulder, and a live chicken in each hand. 

Joth. Well, I s wow, Ned, you have been through some 
sesesh, pooty rusty. Let me heft them chickens. How'd 
you catch them, Ned? 



22 BLUE AND GREY. [ACT HI. 

Ned. I tell ye, massa Jo, how I done cotch dem fellers. I 
seed urn goin' for a hole in de fence, den I jes' scrooch down 
behind de fence and frow down a little corn, and when dey 
poke dem heads frou', I done cotch dem by de neck so dem 
couldn't squawk. 

[Mike is all this time cutting slices of ham and passing to 
the boys.] 

Joth. That's a pooty cute trick, Ned ; can't nobody fool 
you, I tell ye. You cut your eye teeth pooty young, didn't 
ye? 

Ned. Golly ! jes' reckon I did, massa Jo. Can't any ob de 
boys pull de wool ober ole Ned's eye. Dat Irishman t'ink 
he'm mighty smart, but he can't play his roots on dis chile, 
no sah. [Mike cuts the string and passes one ham to the 
boys, the other drops on Ned's toes. ] Hm — m — m ! What 
de debbil am dat ? [Looking for ham.] Whar 'dat oder 
ham gone ? Who stole dat ham ? 

Joth. Who in thunder do you think there is here 'twould 
steal a ham? We jest burnt three o' the darned things to bile 
our coffee with — didn't we, Mike ? 

Mike. We did that same, and mighty bad fire they made, 
too. I have a dozen more av thim, beyant, and divil a one 
will I try to burn agin. Yez had but the one ham, ye black 
thief. 

Ned. Now jes' look h'yar, — how de debbil I make one ham 
hang on my shoulder, eh ? 

Mike, D'yez hear him, boys ? Why, ye descindant of 
Ham, whin I seen ye 'twas hanging from yer big, black ear, 
and I thought 'twas some new shtyle ear-ring ye had, and told 
the boys so, didn't I boys ? 

All. Yes, yes. 

Ned. W — ell — I spec' I didn't hab but one ham, den, 
[Misses chickens.'} but I swar to mighty I had two chickens. 

Mike. Av course ye did, and whin ye dropped the hams 
the chickens flew away over the trees, didn't ye see thim ? 
Ned. No, I swar I didn't, and I jes' reckon dis chile better 



Scene I ] blue and grey. 23 

git up and dust out of dis, or dey steal all de har off 'm my 
head. [Exit r. 

Mike. By the piper, wasn't that done as nate as yer nail ? 
Arrah wusha, but we'll have the illegant shtew off thim 
chickens. 

Joth. Yes ; Jones'll have a chance to taste chicken now if 
he never did afore. But come, fellows, let's all go up yender 
and pitch our tents, seein 1 we've got a little time to spare. 
[Exeunt all, and scene closes.] 



Scene II. — Landscape or front wood. Enter rebel Gen. 
Hill, R., accompanied by orderly. 

Hill. Present my compliments to Captain Peyton, and de- 
sire him to report to me immediately. [Orderly salutes, and 
exits..'] Captain Peyton seems anxious to distinguish him- 
self, and as General Jackson has ordered an attack on the 
enemy's pickets, he will have an opportunity to-night. 
[Enter Peyton, r.] 

Peyton. General, I was ordered to report to you. 

Hill. Yes; I have work for you— an undertaking which 
will require courage and prudence. I have selected you, 
knowing that you possess both. 

Peyton. Thark you, General. I shall be only too glad of 
an opportunity to serve our cause. What is the nature of the 
work ? 

Hill. I wish to attack the enemy's pickets, to arouse their 
camp and spoil their night's rest, but not to bring on a gen- 
eral engagement. You will take your own company only, 
and strike at the extreme right of the Union picket-line, 
The minor details I leave to your own judgment. I shall 
have sufficient troops at hand to cover your retreat. Under 
no circumstances follow far enough to risk capture. Have 
you a trusty man to scout out the enemy's position ? 

Peyton. I have one now out, who knows every inch of the 
country for miles around. 

Hill. Yery well ; I will go and order the reserve to be in 
readiness. [Exit r. 



24 BLUE AND GEEY. [ACT II. 

Peyton. 'Tis time McGaw was here. I sent |him to gain 
information of Charles Raymond's whereabouts, in the hope 
that I may meet him and avenge the insult put upon me in 
his father's house. 

[Enter McGaw, l.] 

Well, Sergeant, what success ? 

McGaw. Tip-top, Cap. I seen the Yanks' camp-fires my- 
self. They are camped on Tyler's farm, and their pickets 
run out as fur as the crick by the railroad, then across to the 
Warrenton pike, and I reckon that's as fur as they go. 

Peyton. That, then, must be our point of attack. We 
must fall upon their right-flank, and, by a bold dash, turn it, 
then, while they are panic-stricken, the rout will be easily 
effected. Do yon know what company does picket-duty at 
that point? 

McGaw. Yes; Co. A., Thirteenth Mass. 

Peyton. [Eagerly,'] Are you sure ? 

McGaw. Yes, Cap., I know my information to be correct. 

Peyton. Then fortune favors my revenge. That upstart, 
Raymond, commands that company, and if I meet him to- 
night, one, perhaps both of us, must fall. Do you remain 
close by my side, and if I am struck down, avenge me upon 
the spot. 

McGaw. O, cheer up, Cap., the bloody Yank, ain't born 
yit that's goin' to git the best o' you. 

Peyton. I certainly hope not, sergeant ; but let's to busi- 
ness. We must fight as only sons of the South can fight for 
their cherished institutions, firesides and homes. Since 
Lieut. Oakley is away, you will be second in command. Go, 
now, and prepare the men. I will soon follow you. [Exit 
McGaw it.] And am I so soon, then, to meet the man I have 
sworn to slay, — whom but|two short years ago I cherished as 
my dearest friend, and who would now be almost a brother 
but for this terrible war ? And Edith, too ; how her pretty 
lips curled in scorn as she called me traitor. 'Twas a cruel 
taunt, yet I never loved her more fondly than at that mo- 



Scene II. blue and obey. 25 

ment. I love her still, I have sworn to possess her, and, 

by fair means or foul, my oath shall be kept. \_Exit b. 

Music. — k€ Maryland, my Maryland" 



Scene III. — The picket reserve. Soldiers discovered sleep- 
ing on their arms. Sentinel on duty. Stage dark. 
Music, "Tenting to-night. ." 

Chas My brave men sleep soundly. They have had a 
hard march to-day, and may well be weary. The rebels are 
encamped but a short distance from us, and we must use the 
utmost vigilance to guard against a surprise. At this lonely, 
midnight hour, thoughts of home and the dear ones there 
come like angel-whispers, and I fancy myself again at my 
father's fireside, with all as it was ere " war's stern alarm " 
was sounded. But such thoughts are not for the soldier; 
duty should ever be uppermost in his mind, and ever be his 
watchword and guiding-star to victory, — victory, whose con- 
summation alone shall be the signal for my return home, for 
I entered the service with the determination to "uphold my 
country's honor" till death or victory should relieve me. 
Sentinel, have you heard from the pickets ? 

Sentinel. Nothing yet, sir. 

Chas. Keep a sharp lookout, and at the slightest alarm, 

arouse the men. I will seek the soldier's dearest luxury, 

sleep and rest. {Lies down with the men.] 
Song. — * ' Battle Prayer. " 

Distant firing. Sentinel gives the alarm, and calls, "Pall 
in the reserve/" 

Chas. [Springing up.] Fall in, men, lively! " 
[Men form line, l. Sergeant enters, b., with squad. Chal- 
lenge and ^countersign given.] 

Chas. Sergeant, what is the meaning of this ? 

SergH. We were attacked by a heavy force ; they were too 
many for us and we had to retreat. 

Chas. Fall in! 

Bugle-call, "Assembly," and "Long rolV beaten outside. 



26 BLUE AND GEEY. [ACT II. 

Chas. Keep cool, men, — stand your ground. The camp is 
aroused and we shall soon be re-inforced. 

Noise of advancing rebs outside, r. Volley as they enter. 
Charles orders his men to fire. 

BATTLE. 

Raymond and Peyton meet. Peyton draws pistol and 
shoots Raymond, who falls, l. c. — or, instead of shooting, 
there may be a sword-combat. Peyton wounds Raymond, 
and as he is about to despatch him, Jotham rushes forward 
and receives the blow upon his musket, shouting, 

it ]SJ 0T THIS CROP ' TURNIPS." 

Stage-picture to close scene. 



Scene IV. — After the battle. Stage dark. Dead and wound- 
ed on stage. Song and chorus, "Bury the brave where 
they fall, " as the dead are being removed. 

[Enter Jotham, l.] 

Joth. Well, here I be again, I swow, jest where the rumpus 
began this mornin'. Poor fellers, some on ye passed in your 
checks, didn't ye? We did have a tarnal tough tussle, and 
no mistake. I began to think that Silence and me had bid 
each other an etarnal good-bye, and was homesicker'n a 
borrered purp. But we licked 'em, and we can do it agin, 
and we're goin' to lick the whole sesesh bilin' on 'em to etar- 
nal smash, too. 

Frank Wilson, [a, Raising himself] Water! water! 
Give me some water. 

Joth. Here, poor feller, I hain't got no water, but here's a 
flask o' New England rum, that'll put life into a dead man. 
[Raises his head and recognizes him.] What ! Frank Wil- 
son, is that you ? Poor fellow, I'm pesky sorry to see you 
here ; you jest lay still a minute while I go and get some o 
the boys to help take you up to the hospital. 



Scene IV ] blue and grey. 27 

Wilson. No, no, Jotbam, 'tis too late for that now. The 
only service I shall require of the boys will be a soldier's 
burial. Come nearer, Jotham ; take this Bible to my moth- 
er ; 'twas her parting gift. Tell her not to weep for me, for I 
fell fighting for the starry flag which soon shall wave again 
o'er an undivided country. Good-bye, Jotham, — I am — go. 
ing — now, — I hear the music — from across the dark river, — 
I see my father there— beckoning me onward. — Good-bye. 
Jotham, — good-bye— mother. [Dies. 

Tableau. — "JPro Patriae." 
During tableau, Song and Chorus, " Comrades, lay 'me 
gently down." 

End of Act III. 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. — Landscape or front wood. 

{Enter Silence and Edith, r. ] 

Silence. Well, this is the Southern Confederacy, I suppose. 
I must say if this is the sunny South, that I'd rather be to 
home over the wash-tub — if Jotham was only there to fetch 
water for me. — O, dear me ! what if we shouldn't find Jotham 
and Charles ? I declare it makes me feel awfully to think of 
it, after all we've endured to get to this pesky place, and now 
not to find them, — I say it's too bad, so there. 
{Enter Jotham, l. with basket of articles from the Sanitary 
Commission, He does not see the girls and they 
do not recognize hiw.~\ 

Joth. I guess I've got all the doctor ordered. — Yes, that's 
all right. By mighty ! if this ere Sanitary Commission ain't 
a big thing, then I own up that I ain't no judge o' physic. 

Edith. I will enquire of this soldier if he knows where 
Charles' regiment is stationed. [To Jotham,} Can you di- 
rect me to the head-quarters of the Thirteenth Massachusetts 
Begiment, sir? 

Joth. Well, I kinder calkilate I can. {Recognizes them.} 
Where in the name of my future greatness, did you come 



28 BLUB AND GEET. [ACT IV. 

from ? Silence Short, you little, tarnal critter, coine here. 
[They embrace] Je — rusalem ! thia is the most excruciatin' 
experience I've had since I left home. How's dad and marm 
and the sorrel mare, and the rest of the folks. — how be they ? 

Silence. Everybody is fust rate to home; how be you? 
Turn round here and let me look at you. — You hain't lost no 
limbs, I see. 

Joth. No, Silence, I hain't lost no limbs, but I lost my 
trunk. Uncle Sam wouldn't let me fetch that because I 
waVt a commissioned officer. 

Silence. Do tell, — what a pity! So yon lost all them 
doughnuts I fried for you, and the piece of yaller soap, and 
the fine-tooth comb your mother put in your trunk ? Oh, 
what a shame ! But ain't you never been shot ? 

Joth. No. I hain't been shot, but I've come dreadful near 
to it, — I've been mor'n half slewed a good many times. [To 
Edith.'] Creation, Edith, I ask your pardon for keepin' ye 
waitin' so long, but, you know how 'tis yourself. I s'pose 
you want to find Charley. 

Edith. Yes, we were endeavoring to find his regiment 
when we met you, and have come to remain with him while 
we can be of any service. 

Joth. That's right, I'm darned glad you've come. Char- 
ley'll be tickled to death to see you ; I'll show you where he 
is quicker'n you can say Jack Robinson, Esq. [Exeunt l. 



Scene II. — Hospital. Plain chamber. Charles in bed, 

with head propped up on pillows. Edith fanning him. 

Table with glasses, vials, <fcc, at head of bed. Jotham 

and Silence seated, r, 

Joth. [Aside to Silence.] Say, you, Silence! Don't that 

look pooty tarnal cute, now? [Points to Charles and Edith.] 

Guess Charley '11 have capitulate pooty soon. Shouldn't 

wonder if there was a match scraped up all along o' this ere 

hospital-nussin'. 

Silence. Jotham Hopkins, you're a nat'ral born fool ! — the 
idea of him marryin' his sister. 



Scene II.] blue and grey. 29 

Joth. Who's a fool ? You talk to your grand-marm ! 
Why, where in natur' have you been all your life, not to 
know nothin'? Edith ain't his sister no mor'n I'm his 
mother. 

Silence. Jotham, what do you mean ? 

Joth. I mean jest what I say. Bless your little gizzard, 
didn't you know that uncle Josh 'dopted Edith when she 
wa'n't no bigger'n a chaw o 1 tobacker ? 

Silence. Squire Josh, 'dopted Edith ? Well, I never ! 

Joth. Who said ye did ? I never, nuther. I thought 
everybody knowed that long ago. Guess nobody'd object if 
they should hitch their hosses together. Aunt Ruth'd give 
all her old shoes to see 'em married, and I'd give my 
gin'ral's commission (that's comin', you know,) to see 'em 
slidin' along the path o' life together. 

Silence. O, Lordy, wouldn't that be cute? And then, 
when him and you git home from the war we'll all be jined to 
once. Oh, dear, I wish the war was over now, — don't you ? 

Joth. Yes, that's mighty nice to think about and talk 
about, but it's mor'n half as likely as not that Johnny Reb'll 
lay out one or both of us afore that time. 

Silence. Oh, Jotham, you make me feel awfully. How can 
you talk so? [Crying.] It's always the way — jest as soon 
as I begin to talk about our futur' happiness, you up and 
dash cold water on all my hopes. I — I — say— you're— too 
bad, so — so there. 

Joth. I swow, Silence, I didn't mean to make ye feel bad. 
Now don't take on so, it takes all the gimp out o' me. Come 
out doors, now do, and I'll show you some cannons, I will, 
by mighty ! — I'll show you some cannons that'll make our old 
Fourth o' July gun look like a one -barreled pistol with the 
stock broke off. 

Silence. I shan't, I won't— I don't want to see no guns. I 
don't want to see nothin'. I wish I'd staid to home. 

Joth. [Aside. J I wish to thunder she had. Now don't act 
so, Silence. I tell ye I didn't mean to make ye cry. Silence, 
— say— come out and see some o' the boys, will ye ? [She 



30 BliUE AND GEEY. [ACT IY. 

dries her eyes arid gets ready quickly.] I thought that 
would start ye. [Aside.] She always was that way, from 
her cradle up to this minute. Come along, ye little, tender- 
hearted piece o' sap-sugar. [Exeunt k. 

Chas. [ Waking. ] Edith here ? Ah, I remember now — I 
was dreaming of home, and to awake and see you here, 
seemed like a realization of the vision. 'Twas very kind in 
you, Edith, to hasten to my side. I can never repay you. 

Edith. Do not talk of repayment, Charles, I have but par- 
tially performed tho sacred duty of every true American 
woman : To attend the wounded, nurse the sick, and alle- 
viate, as far as possible, the sufferings and miseries caused 
by this righteous, but oh, how cruel war. 

Chas. Spoken like a true patriot. [After a pause, taking 
her hand.] Edith, I wish too speak to you now upon a sub- 
ject which has become very dear to me, — the thought of 
which has brightened many otherwise gloomy hours. Dur- 
ing my absence from home and from you, I have learned to 
know my heart aright. I have learned that the love I cher- 
ish for you is not the regard of brother for sister, but a 
deeper, more ardent passion — the love of one who would 
make you his wife. 

Edith. [Somewhat surprised.] Ah, Charles, though to me 
this is sudden and unexpected, your experience has been 
mine, for I have long regarded you as one dearer far than a 
brother. Before proceeding farther, however, you must 
know something of my early life. You have heard that I am 
of Southern birth ? 

Chas. Yes, but why speak of that ? 

Edith. Because I was born a slave. 

Chas. You, Edith ? You a slave? 

Edith. 'Tis true. My parents were octoroons, the property 
of a Virginian planter named Eandolph Gaines. They deter- 
mined to be free, and taking me (then an infant,) with them, 
fled to the North. We were pursued and my father was slain 
while fighting for our liberty. My mother, with the assis- 
tance of friends, escaped and succeeded in reaching the 



Scene II. J blue and grey. 31 

northern states. There, exhausted and broken-hearted, she 
died, leaving me in the care of kind people who sent me to 
New England, where I was finally adopted by your parents. 
Heaven bless their kind hearts, they have been both father 
and mother to me — the orphan outcast, the child of a slave 
who would have been spurned by society had they not care- 
fully concealed the knowledge from all, — even from you, their 
only son. Now you know all,— remember that in marrying 
me you marry a slave. 

Chas. How little do you know me. Think you that my 
love can be changed by the mere "accident of birth?" No 
no, — true, noble, devoted as I know you are, I now ask you 
to be my wife. 

Edith. If the devotion of my life can repay your love, it is 
yours. [They embrace.} 

{Enter Jotham, k.J 

Joth. By thunder, I hate to spile their fun. Well, Char- 
ley, the fat's all in the fire now. Pope and some of the other 
big guns have jest had a powow, and they find that we've got 
to climb, 'cause the rebs air gom' to make it too hot for us 
here. That ain't nothin 1 , but we've got to leave our wound- 
ed behind unless they can look arter themselves. Doctor 
says you can't go nohow, 'twould kill you to be moved. It's 
all-tired rough, but I s'pose we've got to make the best on't. 
Edith, you'd better pick up your traps and kiter for home in 
the fust train. 

Edith. What, and leave Charles alone ? No, Jotham, my 
place is here and here I shall remain. 

Joth. I like your grit, but your discretion's moved out. 

Chas. [After a pause.} Well, 'tis but the fortune of war, 
we must submit to it. But you, Edith, I implore you to lose 
no time, — to make good your escape before it is too late. 
Return home as soon as possible; tell them you left me 
wounded and a prisoner, but if God spares my life I will yet 
escape and strike many another blow for liberty ere I lay 
down my sword. 



32 BLUE AND GREY. [ACT IV. 

Edith. Do not urge me farther, I beg. My post of duty is 
here with you ; seek not, I pray you, to swerve me from it. 

Chas. God bless your noble devotion, as I know He will, 
and may He give me an opportunity to repay this even with 
life itself, if need be. 

Joth. I'll be darned if the idea of runnin' away and leavin' 
you here, don't make me feel meaner'n a dog that's jest been 
licked. I swow, I'm a good mind to take the chances with 
you. 

Chas. No, no, Jotham, go with the boys; tell them I hope 
to be with them yet, but if I perish, to avenge me ten-fold. 

Joth. If you say so, Charley, I will go, but I'll git you out 
o' this scrape or git into a wuss one myself. The Johnnies '11 
hear from me sometime when they don't expect to. But, 
Charley, don't you talk about dyin', it makes my gizzard rise 
right up in my throat. I can't standthat. I shall bust. 

Chas. [Taking Jotham' s hand.] Good-bye, my boy. 

Joth. G— good-bye, Charley. Edith, be you bound to 
stay here ? 

Edith. Yes, Jotham. See that Silence is safely started 
towards home. 

Joth. Oh, don't borry no trouble 'bout Silence. If she 
keeps it up the way she started, she's got there afore this 
time. 

Voice. [Outside.] Fall in! 

Jotham grasps both their hands, — attemps to speak and 
rushes out. Band plays " Yankee Doodle" which gradually 
dies away as Union forces retreat. Edith remains at 
Charles'" side, their hands clasped. Tramping and noise of 
skirmishing outside. 

Chas. Our troops are gone and the advance column of the 
rebels has entered the village, we shall soon be prisoners. 
* 'Dixie" heard in the distance — nearer as the rebels advance. 

McGaw. [Outside.] Hi, boys! Come along and see if 
there's any sick Yanks in this ere place. 

[Enter MoGaw and rebel soldiers, k.] 



Scene II. ] blue and grey. 33 

McOaw. Dod rot me if here ain't a right smart haul. 
[Calling off.'] Say, you, Cap. ! Here's a wounded Yank and 
a pooty gal. 

[Enter Peyton, r. "Chord."*] 

Chas' \ Randol P h Peyton ! 

Peyton. [Mockingly.] lam delighted to see you here my 
esteemed northern friends, however much I may regret to in- 
trude my traitrous presence in your loyal company. 

Chas. Peyton, taunt us not in our misfortunes. We are 
prisoners of war, — treat us as such. 

Peyton. Much consideration you deserve at my hands, 
truly. Mark me, Charles Eaymond, mercy towards you does 
not exist in my heart. I find you here wounded, helpless, 
and I might strike you dead at my feet, but no ; a sweeter 
revenge awaits me. You shall be nursed back to health and 
strength, but only to rot, starve, perish in a Confederate 
prison-pen. 

CJias. I scorn to ask mercy for myself, sir, but this inno- 
cent girl —treat her well, Peyton, whatever torture you may 
inflict upon me. 

Peyton. This girl ! Yes, I shall take particularly good 
care of her, for she is my property. 

Chas. Your property? 

Peyton. Ay, mine ! Mine, body and soul ! My Slave ! 
[Edith clings to Charles. 3 

Chas. [Agitated.] What mean you, Peyton? 

Peyton. I mean what I say. She is mine by inheritance — 
mine by the law of the land. She was stolen from my uncle, 
whose heir I am, when an infant, carried North, and there 
adopted by your abolitionist father. I have traced her step 
by step, and my proofs are undoubted. Ah, my pretty 
wench, you once scorned my love; what have you now to 
say? 

Edith. [Rushes forward and kneels at his feet] Randolph 
Peyton, have mercy on me, — have mercy on me. 



34 BLUE AND GEEY. [ACT IV. 

Peyton. Ha ! ha ! ha ! and can you sue for mercy ? Here, 



boys, take away this nigger! 
[Charles attemps to aid her, but is held by rebel soldiers.] 
-" The bondman' < 
End of Act IV. 



ACT V. 

Scene I. — stockade at Belle Isle. Union prisoners disov- 
ered. Charles seated on ground, near c. Sentinel on 
stockade. Music. Tremulo, until Charles lies down. 

Chas. Two years, — two long, long weary years of misery, 
starvation and insult, have I passed in this accursed place, 
and yet the end comes not. Oh, God of Justice, when shall 
our cause triumph, and our victorious brave ones open these 
prison doors, — or when, oh Father of Mercy, shall death re- 
lease me ? Better death than this death -in-life ; but if it be 
Thy will that I still suffer on and await Thy ends, then 
strength, give me strength to endure. If I but knew of 
Edith, safe and happy, 'twould give me new courage ; but 
patience, patience. — I am so weak and hungry that I must 
rest awhile, and seek forgetfulness in sleep. [Lies down and 
sleeps. Music] 

Jones. I wish they would hurry around with our rations, 
it is little enough and poor enough we get, but they might 
let us have it on time. 

Thompson. Oh, what's the use growling about it ? 'Twont 
mend the matter any; it only pleases them to hear us 
grumble. Keep your eyes and ears open and your mouth 
shut. 

Jones. I'd just like to shut my mouth on a piece of decent 
grub once more. But there, we needn't complain when we 
think of poor Captain Raymond ; they wont even give him a 
chance to die, for when he is too weak to stand their treat- 
ment any longer, they put him into a hospital and nurse him 
up strong again, only to be thrown back here to endure 
another course of starvation. 



Scene I ] blue and grey. 35 

Thompson. Yes, and the anxiety to know about that gal of 
bis is another torture, worse than all the rest. That sneak 
of a rebel Captain claims her as his slave, but she run away 
from him more than a year ago and he can't find her. He 
thinks, too, that Captain Raymond knows where she is, and 
that's what makes him so hard on the Cap'n. 

Jones. Here comes the sneaking rebel clay-eater now. 

[Enter Peyton, r., and crosses to Charles.] 

Peyton. [Kicking Charles.] Get up ! What business have 
you sleeping at this time? Get up and tell me where my 
wench is, 

Prisoners. Oh, shame ! shame ! 

Peyton. Shut up, you dogs ! Get back into your den ! 
[ One lad is too weak to move quickly. ] You white-faced , 
Yankee milk-sop, 111 teach you to move when I speak- 
[Shoots him.] 

Boy falls in Charles' 1 arms saying: ''Oh, Captain, he has 
killed me." 

Chas. [Kneeling and supporting boy.] May God comfort 
the lone widow in her sorrow. [To Peyton.] Wretch •' 
Coward ! Fiend ! If there is a spark of human feeling left 
in your calloused heart, look on this poor dead boy, — the 
only hope of a widowed mother — look, Randolph Peyton , 
and tell me have you forgotten the days when another 
widowed mother looked to you alone for comfort and sup- 
port ? [Peyton seems moved. ] Ah, I thank heaven you are 
not all stone — that you can yet feel remorse, hardened as you 
are. 

Peyton. [Furiously. ] Another word, and your corpse shall 
lie beside his. [Raises pistol.] 

Chas. Fire ! I defy you ! Break my chains and open my 
prison doors. Ay, fire — for death is liberty. 

Peyton. No, I have not done with you yet — have not yet 
drained to the dregs the sweet cup of revenge. When I have, 
your carcass shall be given to the dogs, and your bones 
shall bleach in the sunlight. 



36 BLtJE AND GREY. [ACT V. 

Chas. Taunt on, sir ; say what you will, you cannot move 
me now. 

Peyton. And you still refuse, then, to reveal Edith's 
hiding-place ? 

Chas. Again, I say, I do not know it, and if I did, no tor- 
ture which even your devilish ingenuity can invent, would 
force the secret fiom me. 

Peyton. By Heaven, I will force it from you t If to-morrow 
you refuse, your body shall follow that carrion there. 

{Exit R. 

Chas. {Kneeling beside the body.'] My poor boy, you are at. 
re^-t; peace reigns where you have gone — eternal, heavenly 
peace. 

Sentinel. Take out the dead ! 

Band plays Dirge. Two rebs enter with stretcher and 
remove the body. 

Jones. Poor fellow, he has gone to a nameless grave. 

Jhompton. Yes, but I don't know but I'd as lief lie beside 
him as stay here and die by inches. 

[Noise off", r. Prisoners look off. ] 

Thompson. Hullo, here's another poor devil come to keep 
us company. 

Jones. Yes, and in petticoats, too. What the deuce are 
they bringing her here for ? 

Guard. [As they enter.] There, durn ye! ye wanted to go 
to Belle Isle and now you've got there. 

Pushes Jotham in, disguised as an Irish apple woman. 

Joth. (Irish business. Gives the guard a bottle of drug- 
ged whisky.) {Exit guard, r. 

Sentinel. [On stockade.] Here, ol' woman, got any more o' 
that whisky what ye give Tom ? What ye got in that basket ? 

Joth. Faith, sir, I have some apples here in the basket, 
and mighty few av thim, for the blackguards on the boat 
sntole nearly the whole from me, and I was wonderin' where 
I'd get the money to buy some more. 



Scene I.J blue and grey. 37 

Sentinel. Give me some o' that whisky, and I'll give ye 
money to buy some more. 

Joth. Will ye, sir? Thank ye, sir; that the Lord may 
bless ye, sir. Sure, I have but the one taste I kept for me 
own tluoat. but, for the sake o' the childer, I'll give it to ye, 
sir. [Gives bottle.] Now, sir, give me the money av ye 
plaze. 

Sentinel. [Drinking.] Oh, let up with yer gab, ol'gal; I 
haint got no money, and if I had, you wouldn't get it. I 
reckon you wont get out o' this in a hurry, nuther. 

Joth. [Irish business.] Arrah, ye murderin', thievin', black 
devil. Come down out o' that and I'll give ye a drink av 
another sort. Give me the money, ye big thief. 

Sentinel goes his rounds, taking no notice of Jotham. 
Charles and other prisoners have fallen asleep. Jotham 
sits near Charles. Irish business. Sentinel falls asleep. 
Jotham pulls Charles' clothing, and he awakes. 

Chas. What! What is it? 

Joth. Kape quite, darlin', don't spake a loud word, for the 
love o' Heaven. 

Chas. Who are you ? 

[Jotham throws off disguise. ■ ' Chord. "] 

Chas. Jotham ! 

Joth. Now don't you say one word. No talk and darned 
quick work. I've give them two cussed rebs a dose that'll 
make 'em sleep a spell. Now lay down and keep still till old 
Ned gives the signal ; he's jest outside the lines with a boat. 

Chas. One word, Jotham.— Edith, do you know of her ? 

Joth. Yes, I do ; she's all right ; she's jest across the river, 
hidin' in the woods. Been hidin' this year back with some 
friendly niggers not fur from Richmond. Ned found out 
where she was, and him and me brought her here. [Charles 
is abont to speak.] Don't yip agin,— lay down. 

They lie down— all quiet. Music, tremulo. Whistle heard. 
They arise and cautiously Exit r. 



38 BLUE AND GREY. [ACT V. 

Scene II. — Front wood. 

[Enter Jotham, l., hurriedly.'] 

Joth. Well, by thunder, we've got out o' that grave-yard 
and got across the river, but the darned varmints are arter 
us. I wish to mighty I could a' pisened the whole pesky 
nest on 'em. Any how, they've got to be pooty tarnal sharp 
to git ahead o' this party. Hullo, here ye are ; where's the 
nigger ? 

Enter Chas. and Edith. 

Chas. He is coming but a short distance behind us. Shall 
we not soon reach the swamp ? We must throw our pursuer* 
off the track or be recaptured . 

[Enter Ned, k., running.] 

Ned. For de Lord sake, massa, les' git out ob dis, quick ; 
dey done got de hounds on de track. [Homids in distance.] 

Chas. Heaven guard us now. Come, not a moment is to 
be lost ; we must take to the water. Ned, where is the near- 
tes stream ? 

Ned. Jest ober de hill yonder, dere is a mighty smart 
crick runs right into the swamp. 

Joth. Let's scatter, then, and go in different directions, to 
throw 'em off the trail. Don't wait for me, for if them dogs 
come up, they'll chaw me or I'll chaw them. Ned, you tell 
them which way to go. [Exeunt r. and l. 



Scene III. — Deep wood, back. 

[Enter Ned running. ] 
Ned. I reckon I found a safe place to hide up dar by de 
crick. Les' see if I can raise dem. [ Whistles, — answered 
in the distance.] Yes, dar dey am. [Baying of hounds.'] 
Oh, my golly, hurry up. 

[Enter Charles and Edith, r. J 
Chas. Ned, where is Jotham? He cannot be far away. 



Scene III.] blue and grey. 39 

H irk ! the hounds are at fault, they have reached our halting 
place on the other side of the hill. 

[Pistol shot, off, R.] 

Ned. My good Lordv ! dey done cotch massa Jotham. I 
know dey hab. 

Chas. He must have fired the shot. He had pistols, but 
would use them only as a last resort. We must find him, ' 
Ned ; it will never do to let the brave fellow die alone. 

Ned. 'Deed no, massa Charles — 

[Noise, r. Enter Jotham.] 

Chas. Jotham, what is the matter ? 

Joth. I killed both the darned dogs, that's what's the mat- 
ter. But come on, 111 tell ye about it some other time when 
business ain't so drivin'. I heard a bugle off this way and I 
guess 'twas a Yankee blast. 

Chas. Do you think so, Jotham ? I fear we are almost too 
near Richmond to fall in with any of our troops. 

Joth. I don't know about that. The rebs say you can't 
most always sometimes tell where our troops be, since Sher- 
man marched lrom 'Atlanta down to the sea." But come on 

i 
or it will be too late. 

[Enter Peyton and men, b.. u Chord." 

Peyton. Halt ! Stir not hand nor foot, or you shall be shot 
down like dogs ! 

Chas. Fire, Randolph Peyton, I dare you! We have es- 
caped you once, and now will die together, rather than go 
back to your accursed slaughter-pen. 

Peyton. By Heaven, you shall go back there, and I will 
starve you by inches. Take them alive, men ; do not fire a 
shot. 

Chas. Stand back ! The first man who comes within reach 
of my sword, dies. [Men hesitate.] 

Peyton. [Leaping forward — sword drawn. - ] I will show 
you another Cedar Mountain trick, my friend. They fight. 
Charles disarms Peyton and strikes him down. Volley 
from Union men, off~L. They enter and rebs retreat. 



40 BLUE AND GREY. [ACT V. 

Peyton. My curse upon you, you have robbed me of my 
revenge ; 'twas all I lived for. Ah — that pain— my breath is 
going — I am dying — dying. {Dies. 

Chas. There lies one who was once my dearest friend. 
Let us not harbor malice toward the dead. Take the body, 
boys, and give it a decent burial. 

Men kneel to raise the body. Picture. Music — Dirge. 



Scene IV. — Front wood, near Union camp. 
[JSnter Mike and JoTHiJtf, n. ] 

Mike. Arrah, by the piper that played before Moses, here 
ye are agin. Divil a one o' me thought I'd iver see ye agin ; 
and now yerself and the black nagur come back wid the 
Cap'n and the young leddy. Yerself is the boy can fool thim 
haythens, anyhow. Tell us how it was ye did it. 

Joth. Well, ye see, the nigger 'n me started out huntin' 
arter Edith, and arter havin' all sorts of adventures and 
gettin' darned near sculped mor'n two hundred times, we 
found her hid away among some friendly niggers down near 
Belle Isle, where I knowed Charley was bein' starved to death 
by that infarnal snake, Peyton. Then I rigged myself up as 
an Irish woman, and I jest come the paddy over them rebs 
so't they histed me inside the stockade. — I did, by mighty ! 

Mike. An Irish woman ? Don't be lyin' to me, Corp'ral. 
How the divil did you learn the Irish business ? 

Joth. Oh, I picked that up from an old woman that used 
to work for my marm when I was a boy, and, to make a long 
story short, I fooled them rebs as slick as grease. I give 'em 
some devilled whiskey and put 'em to sleep, and then Char- 
ley 'n me didn't 'low nothin' to vegetate under our feet, you 
better b'lieve. 

Mike. And didn't the Johnnies foller yez ? 

Joth. Foller us ? Well, p'raps they didn't. We had pooty 
nigh the whole Confederacy arter us, with a sprinklin' o 
catamounts and bloodhounds throwed in jest for sass. But 
'twan't no use ; I made sassige stock o' the dogs, and Charley 



Scene IV. J blue and grey. 41 

bradded that skunk o' misery, Peyton, under the fifth rib, 
and sent him flukin' from a world o 1 sorrow, 

Mike. So he's dead, is he ? May the divil roast him, say I. 

Joth. Well. Mike, I guess by this time he knows how that 
is hisself. 

Noise outside, guns, cheering, <fcc, &c. 
[Enter Ned, r.] 

Ned. I golly, massa Jo, hear de news ? Lee done gone 
surrender. 

Joth. Surrendered ! You git out ! 

Mike. Come here, nagur. [Takes him by the ear.] Av 
yez lie to me now, I'll strangle yez. Is it the truth yere 
tellin' us ? 

Ned. Truth ? I golly, I reckon it's truth. Massa Gin'ral 
Meade jes' ride down de line wid Lee's sword swingin' ober 
him head. 

Joih. By thunder, ain't that rippin' ? The war's over now, 
sure pop. [They cheer, shake hands, &c, &c] Come, let's 
go up and find out all about this thing. [Exeunt r. 

[Two weeks are supposed to elapse between scenes IV and 



Scene V. — Parlor as in Act I 

[Mr. Raymond with newspaper. Mrs. R. dressed in deep 
mourning. ] 

Mr. H. [Dropping paper.] Nothing there. 

Mrs. R. Did you expect to find news of Charles and Edith, 
husband ? 

Mr. R. No, I don't know that I did ; yet I cannot deny my- 
self the hope that we may, sometime, learn of them, even if 
it but confirms the assurance that they are dead. 

Mrs. R. 'Tis hardly possible, dear. For a year we left no 
means untried to gain knowledge of their fate, and now, for 
another year we have mourned them as dead. Hope has 
long since departed ; let us look only to God. 

Mr. R. We are treading the downward path, wife; we are 
not what we were before this great sorrow came upon us and 



42 BLUE AND GREY. [ACT V. 

we must strengthen each other as best we can. Sometimes I 
long for death ; 'tis wrong, I know, but I cannot help it. 
Even now, when I should be full of joy at our country's tri- 
umph and the return of peace, I can do nothing but mourn. 
We have sacrificed much ; we have given everything most 
dear to us. 

Mrs. R. [After a pause.] Jotham should be here to-day, 
should he not ? 

Mr. B. Ah, the noble, devoted fellow. Yes, he wrote us 
— let's see — two weeks ago ; strange we haven't heard from 
him. 

Joth. [Outside, ».] You jest wait here a minute, and I'll fix 
it all right. 

[Enter Jotham, r.] 

Mr j R. Jotham, my dear boy, welcome home. 

Mrs. R. Welcome, Jotham, welcome. You will forgive us 
if our greeting seems sad, but you know Charles and Edith 
are not with you. 

Mr. B. No, my boy, they will never come to see us ; let us 
hope to go to them in Heaven. 

Joth. Well, now, uncle Josh. [Aside. ] Consarn my picter, 
how shall I tell 'em ? Ye see — that is, ye know — no ye don't 
nuther. Darn the luck. 

Mr. R. What is it, Jotham ? 

Joth. Well, uncle, I was goin' on to say that Charley and 
Edith's the best boy and gal I ever see, — but I don't adzactly 
believe they air in heaven. 

Mrs. B. \ Wiiat do y° u mean ? 

Joth. [Aside. ] I can't bust the news worth a cent,— I've 
got to blart it right out like a consarned calf. 
Mr. R. Have you heard of them ? Speak. 
Joth. Well, I kinder conjecter I have. 

frs\. ( WheQ? Where? 

Coth. [Aside.~\ Here goes for it. Now. aunt Ruth, don't 
you faint, and, uncle Josh, don't you go into hysterickys if I 
tell ye somethin', now will ye ? 



SCENB I.J BLUE AND OBEY. 43 

Mrs. R. Speak, Jotham— do not keep us in this suspense. 
Can it be that they are alive ? 

Joth. And a kickin'; and out here on the piazzer — and 
dyin' to come in. There, I guess you know it now. 

[Mes. E. sinks into a chair.] 

Mr. B. Alive ? My darling boy and girl alive ? [Catches 

Jotham and dances about the stage, then sinks into a chair. ~\ 

Joth. There, I know ye'd bust yer biler and cut up yer 

didoes. Hold in yer bosses, now do. Shall I bring 'em in 

now, or will ye wait an hour or so ? 

Mr. E. Quick, quick — let me see them. 

[Jotham meets Charles and Edith, b.] 
Chas. I cannot wait longer. 

M V rs R B | M y son! My daughter! ] 

Vh ' ' ) \ {Embrace.} 

Edith. | F » ther! Mother! J 

[Silence rushes in, r. ] 

Silence. Jotham Hopkins, do I behold you once again ? 

Joth. Silence Short, if you ain't blind, I guess you do. 
[They embrace.] 1 never half knowed how this was myself. 
[Jotham and Silence go up stage. ] 

Mr. R. Can this be real, or is it some happy dream? 

Chas. 'Tis all real, father, We have suffered much, but 
God in His goodness has reunited* us. 

Edith. Speak not of suffering now, I entreat you. All of 
misery there is in this world seems nothing, when through it 
I gain such happiness as this. 

Chas. Always brave and faithful, my sister — my wife. 

Mr. B. I w . f * 
Mrs.R. \ Wlfe ' 

Chas. Or will be soon. Yes, father, yes, mother; I have 
seen so much of Edith's worth and devotion since I left 
home, that I have learned to love her more than life itself. 



44 BLUE AND GREY. [ACT V. 

Mrs. R. Then Heaven has added more to my cup of joy; 
my happiness is now complete. What say you, husband ? 

Mr. R. What say I? Why, that I shall dance for joy, as I 
did a few moments ago, when I see them married. 
[Jotham and Silence come down.] 

Joth. Now that's clever, uncle Josh., and I hope that you'll 
be corresponding tickled when you see me and Silence 
hitched up for life ; for she's made up her mind that she ain't 
goin' to be Short any longer. 

Mr. R. Certainly, my dear boy, I wish you joy. 

Joth. That's right, I'm much obliged to ye. You know 
how "'twas yerself when you was courtin', you old rat you ; 
and when it comes to grand-sons and grand-nevys — 

Silence. Jotham ! 

Joth. Well, we won't talk about them now . 

Chas. Jotham, my noble fellow, I wish you every joy that 
earth can give you now, and Heaven hereafter. I can never 
repay you for all your services to Elith aud myself. And 
now, father, mother, all — let us thank God who has brought 
us again together, through trial, suffering and danger, 
cause once more the light of Peace to shine upon our happy 
land, and granted us the victory in the mighty struggle be- 
tween the Blue and Grey. 

Jotham, Silence, Charles, Edith, Mrs. E, Mr. E. 

Band plays •' American Hymn" as curtain slowly descends. 

Closing Tableau. — Grand Allegorical Decoration Scene. 

Introducing Statuary and Lady Figures. 



FINIS. 



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